The Mr. Peanut Murders
Mr. Peanut. The family friendly mascot of the peanut brand Planters. Some have said mr. peanut was brought to life when a submitted artist sketch through fake student name Antonio Gentile drew up the classic peanut-shaped-man with stick legs, a monocle, and a sinister smile. As a former heir to the peanut estate I recall the “5 cent lunch” being not quite that at all. In fact that Italian estate to which Mr. Peanut was originally “cultivated’ quote-unquote was a hell that I can no longer bear to speak about with crying and screaming internally about the horrors I had witnessed. I had won it. The free tour. The plane trip. The sack lunch of peanuts. A lifetime supply of peanuts, in fact. How ironic, the one man to win a lifetime supply of peanuts was one of the only men in the world with a rare strain of peanut allergy that could kill him. I would later find out it was not ironic at all. I politely refused the peanuts. The peanuts on the plane. The peanuts on the boat. The peanuts on the automobile, horse and buggy and in the moat. The castle had peanuts on the outside, a beautiful Tuscan villa the likes of which I had never seen. And then the prize. A lifetime supply of peanuts, or a cash equivalent of 50 dollars, whichever was chosen. I just wanted the fifty bucks. As I entered the main hall of the peanut gallery, a strange, shadowy child enveloped the lower portion of the staircase. It wasn’t a child. It wasn’t a child at all. I had to rub my eyes twice because I couldn’t believe what a was seeing. A tiny, peanut shaped man. In a monocle. Dancing and swaying right before my freaking eyes. “Hello there, old chap.” The peanut man smiled. “I see you’ve come to witness the truth about the Planters peanut industry. I can tell you’re worried, but there’s nothing to fear. All the nuts in the world won’t save you now.” He smiled and led us into the gallery, though the others on the tour were becoming increasingly anxious. He led us into a room full of empty glass cases and stepped into each. “Here I am in the 1910s.” He said. “Here I am in the 1920s.” He moved from case to case, not changing at all. “Years ago I was the victim of an ancient Druid spell that-“ I started to leave but two large, burly security guards wearing peanut vests forced me back into the line. “And it is only by drinking the blood of innocent men such as your self that I am able to maintain my youthful peanut glow.” The tiny peanut man ran his tongue across my arm. “Salty.” He whispered. This was disgusting. I pushed him away and he struck me with a cane! “Didn’t your mother ever teach you manners, old chap? Or is the peanut man with the peanut plan going to have to abduct you in his peanut van?” What the hell. Was going on. Indeed, I could see a van outside the Tuscan villa revved and ready to go. “Now finish the tour, get your goddamn sack of peanuts, and witness the horror of a man trapped in his own peanut shell hell for all eternity.” Mr. Peanut began to cry and I felt sympathy for him, but then he struck me with a cane again. “Weakness is not very becoming for the Planters company, old chap.” He said. That was the third time he had called me old chap. I was starting to get sick. He led us into a banquet hall to conclude the tour. “And now, to conclude, your reward, a lifetime supply of peanuts, or fifty dollars, whichever you select.” I chose the fifty dollars. “Take your slave money, petulant thug” he yelled, slapping me with the cash equivalent of fifty rebates. I should’ve read the fine print. He forced me into a banquet hall chair with his tiny stick-like arms. “You’re going to have to eat at least one peanut before you leave.” He snapped. He placed a single peanut on the dinet set and cut it in half with a fork. “No.” I said. “I have a peanut allergy! I’ll swell up like a balloon!” Some other man who I never mentioned began to yell. “I have a peanut allergy too! We all have goddamn peanut allergies! What kind of sick joke is this!” “The kind that ends with a bang.” Mr. Peanut took out a gun and shot him point blank in the head. He slumped over, dead. “The Mr. Peanut Murder Mystery is finally coming to a close.” Mr. Peanut said to himself. Mr. Peanut began loading an elephant gun. I ate the peanut. There was a rash, some light tingling, a swelling sensation and a general feeling that I wasn’t all there, but it went away. And when it did. I had fifty bucks worth of free planters coupons. “Take your blood money!” I yelled fiercely. I threw them in the peanut boy’s face and kicked him square in the peanut abdomen. He flew like a soccer ball across the dining room, out a window and landed in the atlantic ocean. Thankfully for him, peanuts are their own flotation device. “Dear boy, the cooling ocean waves are only flavoring me for the Planters-in-The-Atlantic line of salted nut snacks, you nut sack.” Indeed, you can’t win with Mr. Peanut. He’s been mailing me letters to come back to the estate so he can murder me, but I won’t go. I’m a little afraid, a little ashamed, and a little angry. Some say, if you listen carefully at night, you can hear Mr. Peanut at your window, tapping his cane, doing a little dance. You may think it’s an alien or a baby, or a baby alien, but no. It’s the peanut man. That goddamn peanut-shaped-man.